Monday, January 20, 2003
Monday morning. The leafblowers are blowing non-existant leaves, but effectively stripping all the top soil from the grounds. Idiots.
I have to write today. Tomorrow I have the frelling dentist and the dying of the hair, and I have both in Birmingham (transitions to suitable Atlantan services will be made, in time), so tomorrow's pretty much shot. But today I have to write. At least 1,000 words. At least. Three-quarters or more of an unwritten novel stretch out before me. Nothing else matters or can matter. As William Faulkner said, "The writer's only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' is worth any number of old ladies." It is immaterial that I don't want to write, that I don't feel like writing. Inspiration is irrelevant. Inspiration is for high schoolers penning bad poetry during algebra class. A writer who relies on the fancy of muses and inspiration will starve. It is of no consequence that I can think of a hundred things off the top of my head that I'd rather do today. It is of no matter that I would rather spend the day with Thryn, or at a museum, or haunting some as yet unexplored cemetery. I deserve nothing until I have written. The book is all that matters. Conversely, all that matters is the book.
In my next life I will be a stonemason.
After that, if I've been a good stonemason, I will be very small and inconspicuous sea thing.
All I have to do first, is write this novel, and the next novel, and the one after that, ad infinitum, ad nauseum. Writers do not retire. There is no point at which someone gives you a gold watch, a pat on the head for a job well done, a meager pension, and sends you off to pasture. No hand is too arthritic to write, somehow. There is always a way to get the words out, damn them. Insanity does not even save us. Nothing, but writing. Oh, and death, if one is an optimist.
I've been doing this thing, writing, non-stop for eleven years, and publishing for seven, and I still see reviewers refer to me as a "new voice" or a "new talent." It chills my blood. This will go on forever. No, just a little longer than that. It feels that way, that way exactly, this January afternoon. All writers look forward to our time in Purgatory, as we know that we'll be right at home there.
Last night it was Topsy-Turvy after all, and then Thryn and I read Part One of Courtney Crumrin and the Coven of Mystics. Very, very fine. Ted Naifeh just keeps getting better and better. Go to your local hawker of comics and acquire a copy. You will be pleased.
I've almost worn the "N" and the "H" off my keyboard. For that matter, the "A," "O," "C," and "S" have all seen better days.
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